


I Think I'm Confused

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Community: homesmut, Dubious Consent, F/M, Highschoolstuck, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:08:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which awkwardness and persistence triumph, if "triumph" means "get an alternate universe version of Eridan Ampora laid"; and Aradia isn't as detached as she might like to think.  (This is pure idfic, and I am ashamed.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Think I'm Confused

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kink meme (http://homesmut.livejournal.com/9406.html?thread=13948350#t13948350).
> 
> Title is from Jenny Owen Youngs's "Coyote."
> 
> My dignity, unfortunately, is nowhere to be found.

tell me not to fuck this loser   
ok

“How’s your friend?”

He’s sitting on Kanaya’s bed, watching you text. How did you end up alone with him? There were like five other people here a second ago.

“Fine,” you reply shortly, and shut your phone. “Where is everyone?”

“Trying to open the drinks cabinet. King’s Cup is just gross when you’re sober.” He fiddles with the ends of his scarf. Your eyes are suddenly drawn to his long, knobbly fingers, for once uncluttered by tacky-looking rings. His nails are filed-down and clean. You hope he doesn't notice you looking.

“Yeah,” you say, because you aren’t sure how else to respond.

He crosses one gangly leg over the other, leans back in a way he must think casually suave. “So uh, got any plans for the rest of the weekend?”

“Yes.” You glance toward the door.

“Oh. Cool. Fef an me are goin to a concert, she’s really into hip-hop lately.” He clears his throat. “We’re not, uh, _together_ , though.”

“Mm,” you nod. You are careful to keep your face blank. “Shouldn’t we go help them?”

“I don’t think,” he begins, but you’re already up and heading to the door. He follows you; of course he does, he has to. The helpless way he jerks to his feet, and then his sort of embarrassed scampering to catch up, make things _happen_ inside you as much as they creep you out.

On the way downstairs, you try to ignore the warmth of him behind you, almost but not quite too close.

sollux help   
its not working   
why the fuck diid you a2k me then?

His attention rarely leaves you, even when you’re across the room and to his back. He insists on including you in conversation at every turn, and also on mixing your gin and tonic. (You would prefer a scotch and soda.) Under Feferi’s scrutiny, he fills and empties a shot glass the appropriate amount of times, and even garnishes the drink with a thin slice of lime. No one else gets lime.

When you assemble for King’s Cup—played, as always, in conjunction with Ten Fingers/I’ve Never/Truth Or Dare—he sits next to you. Once again, he’s skirting the edge of too close, but only just.

You can see his striped pants out of the corner of your eye.

Feferi draws the Ten of Hearts. “Categories!” she announces, and vibrates with joy. “Okay…um…sea creatures!” Everyone but Jade groans.

It is Jade, seated to Feferi’s left, who goes first. “Blue-ringed octopus!”

“Uh, shark? I don’t know that many,” says John apologetically.

“Jeez, John!” Vriska loosens her death grip on Kanaya’s waist to poke him in the side, and nearly upsets their PBRs. “The abyssal spiderfish, of course.”

“Is that even a,” says Terezi, at the same time that Kanaya says, “I fail to grasp how what you have said warrants that particular interrupting phrase.” You notice that he’s watching Vriska with a pained expression, and feel a twinge of not-quite-jealousy.

Kanaya adds, “Vampire squid from hell”; and Terezi says, “Rainbowfish”; and Gamzee (no one knows why Gamzee’s there) asserts, “Komodo dragon, sister, that shit is tight,” with such conviction that it goes unchallenged. He smiles at you. “Your turn.”

“Moon jelly,” you offer.

“Sea nettle,” says Eridan, and draws the Eight of Spades.

“Mate!” Feferi crows. “Who’s going to be your mate, Eridan?”

“Aradia?” He sighs at you so plaintively, and you roll your eyes and nod your acceptance. He blushes almost fast enough to be sincere.

You know why he’s doing this. You know what he thinks. You’re “easy.” You’re trash. You have “a past.” If Sollux’s parents weren’t always fighting, they wouldn’t let you in their house.

People act nice when they want to screw you, but they’re never nice after you let them. Never.

Whatever, you’re fine. You have good friends and a thick skin. Maybe you’ll find something you want in him, and take it, and enjoy it. For now, there’s the promise of an awkward two hours, and maybe another free gin and tonic.

i will not fuck this loser   
i will not fuck this loser   
i will not fuck this loser   
hate to 2ay iit, AA, but   
iit kiind of 2ound2 liike you’re goiing to fuck thiis lo2er

An hour later, everyone is drunk, except for you and the designated driver (John, who has only had one beer, and switched to apple juice after he finished it). Nobody remembers whose turn it is, so Jade suggests you watch a movie. An impassioned debate ensues, fueled by private interpersonal tensions as well as feelings and opinions. This debate is dispersed by the shattering revelation that Kanaya owns nothing but vampire movies. Terezi and Vriska make it an argument anyway, one taking the side of _Queen of the Damned_ and the other advocating vehemently for _Zoltan, Hound of Dracula_.

(He keeps touching you, just little touches. A tap on the shoulder to get your attention, a brush to the wrist when you’ve said something he agrees with. A poke to the knee to make sure you’re still there, like you could go anywhere. God, this kid must be desperate.)

In the end, Kanaya makes An Executive Decision—“We are watching _My Best Friend Is A Vampire_ and we are watching it _now_ ”—and tears the squabbling girls apart solely with the force of her stern, yet feminine gaze. Not even the charms of a young Robert Sean Leonard can entice you to view the 1987 horror-comedy, so you slip out of the room while everyone else is occupied with preparations. (Terezi is drinking the abandoned King's Cup while Vriska heckles her.)

Kanaya’s house is big and dark and wonderfully empty. (You could fit like three of your house in this place, seriously.) Shadows swallow the bright decorations, suck the color from colorfully upholstered furniture. You allow yourself to be confused by staircase landings and artfully placed full-length mirrors, and eventually stumble on what must be her mother’s study.

There are bookshelves under glass. An antiquey-looking desk, a computer that cost more than your dad’s car. You feel out of place. That doesn’t stop you from laying down on the chaise lounge—mmm, it’s nice and cool—and giving in to the urge to close your eyes.

Maybe you’re drunker than you thought, because you don’t hear the door open.

“Ar?”

…shit

He’s moving toward you, then standing over you. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, just tired.” You fake a laugh. “I’ll be fine. Aren’t you going to watch the movie?”

“Naw, I’m not in the mood.” He sits down on the floor, pulling his knees to his chest. Oh, great. “Is it okay if I hang out with you?”

You mash your face into the cushions to hide your sigh, tightness rising in the pit of your stomach. “Yeah, whatever.” You hear him breathing, the rustle of fabric as his limbs shift. You can tell he’s trying not to stare at your legs, exposed by the catch of skirt on upholstery. You hope that he’s not actually staring at your ass.

“So what’s up?”

“Eridan, you saw me like five minutes ago.”

He huffs a laugh. “I don’t know Ar, somethin’ could of happened.”

You shrug—which is awkward, because you’re still prone.

His voice gets softer. “It’s really weird to be drinkin’ at Kan’s…”

“Oh?” you mumble into the join of seat and back. You steel yourself for a rambling sentimental anecdote, with a focus on heartbreak and failure, and possibly something about how he just needs someone to _believe_ in him.

“Yeah, we used to come here all the time when we were little. Me an’ Fef an’ Vris, an’ sometimes Eq.”

You start. You roll over to face him. “Eq? Do you mean Equius Zahhak?”

“Yeah, Eq.” He regards you with puzzlement, then comprehension. “You an’ him used to—”

“Not really.” The frost in your tone surprises you. Not that it’s there, really, but that it’s showing through.

After a minute, he says, “Want to talk about it?”

“No.” Your hands ball into fists.

“Are you sure? Cause I went through a lot a things with Vris an Kar an Fef an also kinda with Nep, and it reely helped to—“

“No,” you nearly shout.

That shuts him up. “Whoa,” he says. “Whoa. We don’t have to. Sorry.”

"It's fine." You clip your words just short enough to let him know it isn't. You are feeling a little cruel now. While he's probably still ruing his fuck-up, you twist up onto your side, crossing your legs behind you. “How far have you gotten with a girl, Eridan?”

His eyes widen. “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve heard things.” You tilt your chin down, appraise him.

“What kinda things?” he says, hopeful, panicked.

You re-cross your legs slowly. Oozing honey, you say, “I’ve heard you’re a virgin.”

You have heard no such thing. You expect faux-macho bluster, followed by an unfortunately detailed rundown of his exploits. But, instead, he squeaks and goes very still. “That’s a fuckin’ egregious falsehood,” he manages. “Blatantly untrue. Who said that?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Your lips quirk upward.

“Come on Ar, I gotta know if somebody’s spreadin’ lies about me.”

You dismount from the chaise lounge, sit facing him. He flinches at first, then leans in.

“Wouldn’t you rather prove it to me?”

“Huh?”

You ladle more honey onto your tone. “Wouldn’t you rather…prove it to me?”

It takes a minute to sink in. Oh dear, now it seems he has frozen in place! “You mean—”

You incline your forehead more toward his, scoot so your knees barely touch. Biting your lower lip, you glance at the floor, then his face. Your eyes half-close. You smile.

“Yeah,” you say. He’s never looked more terrified.

He sucks in a shuddering breath. “Okay. I mean, yes. Yes.”

Dipping your head to hide a laugh, you straddle him, and fasten your arms around his sweater-clad middle. His heart is beating fast, he’s kind of trembling, and something is definitely going on in the pants department of the Eridan Amporium. And they call you easy.

You kiss his neck, then move to kiss his cheek. But he turns his head aside, so your lips mash awkwardly against his. Okay, you can work with that. But is it really time for tongues to get involved? God _damn_ he is awful at kissing. You pull back, wipe the spit from your mouth and chin. You almost make a face, but his expression is so wretched that you smile instead.

“Hey,” you say, “it’s okay. It’s fine.” You wipe your hand on your skirt.

“Course it’s fine.” He glowers. “I’m, uh.” You touch his jaw, and he deflates. You reach for his glasses. He shoos you away, takes them off and sets them aside.

You touch his lips, nudging lightly at first, then stroking over with your thumb and index finger. He stiffens, but his mouth opens eagerly. (God, such a _whore_ , you think, and suppress a whimper.) His tongue darts out, beckoning you inside. It’s hot, and wet, and other mouth-type things. He licks at your fingers while he’s sucking them, sucks them inside almost to the root. It is really not your fault if you feel a little faint.

A smirk is blooming on his face, the insufferable smirk of the highly insecure. You won’t stand for that. You withdraw your fingers, shivering as they slide out of his slick-swollen mouth, and kiss him again. He tastes like gin and salt and also a little like mildew.

You kiss him once more. Your teeth clack together. It hurts, but you don’t let him go. You bite his lower lip, really bite _in_ to it, and maybe he’s bleeding but he gasps and clings to you.

“You like that?” you mutter, and are immediately mortified at yourself. He responds by rolling his hips clumsily upward. Apparently, yes. You push a hand through his stupid overstyled hair, to the back of his neck, and dig your nails into the cradle of his skull. He hisses, but doesn’t recoil. In fact, he leans into the pressure, kisses you more urgently. You would grind on him, but you’re not sure he could handle it.

Oh, how could you have forgotten? With your free hand, you start rummaging through your pockets. Lost in Overexcited Virgin Land, he doesn’t notice until you push him away.

“Dammit. Do you have a…?”

He frowns, blinks, then gets it. “Shit. No.”

You can work with that. “Change of plans. How do you feel about cunnilingus?”

Oh, he recognized that straight away. Pervert. (You are secretly rather pleased.) He gawks, then drops to the ground and starts pawing at your thighs.

You bat him away, rise to your feet. The air is still and warm, and your clothes stick to your skin. You pull your top over your head—he attempts to help, but the slant of your glare freezes him—and then bend to remove your underwear. The skirt ain’t coming off. He follows suit, except apparently the pants are coming off. Well, the pants are _eventually_ coming off.

You sit astride the chaise lounge, watching him try to wriggle out of his pants while kneeling. In the darkness, your eyes meet. It is the opposite of sexy. Your breath catches anyway.

“Come here.”

He shuffles toward you awkwardly. You spread your legs and beckon him between. His expression is a mix of wonder, greed, and resentment. He skims his palms across your skin, then strokes, feels, clutches. It’s like he’s the kid whose parents forbid him ice cream, and you’re the mysteriously unlocked ice cream shop. You are a little endeared, a lot alarmed. But you still have control.

He’s all over the place, sloppy and frantic. You hook your knees around his neck and guide his head with your hand. He grasps your hips hard enough to bruise.

When you’re almost gone, you yank lightly at his hair. He keeps going, so you yank harder. He tumbles back, nose and cheeks wet, tongue still out of his mouth. You release him, fix your eyes on his, and begin to touch yourself.

Three fingers are usually a stretch, but tonight they glide right in. You moan a little more than strictly necessary, and toss your head, flicking sweat-drenched hair out of your eyes. You’re so slick (with spit and sweat and…other things), it’s difficult to get any friction. So you rub harder, you twist more furiously.

He reaches for you. “Nope,” you snarl. You repeat it when he reaches for himself. It seems like he hates you, but he obeys.

He’s straining against the urge of it, with all of his weak little will. You can tell. You feel...proud? And maybe you’ve hit the right spot, the right pressure, the right mix of roughness and lubrication. Because in moments you’re coming, panting into thin air.

You’re too scared to look at him, but once the blood stops pounding in your ears, you find your voice. “Hey, look at it like this.” You pull your fingers out, wincing, and bring them to your mouth. You suck one into your mouth; he whines. “This way, you actually got to see me come.”

His breath catches indignantly. He clears his throat. “Like you know I couldn’t of, when you didn’t give me a fuckin’ chance.”

“Excuse me? Is that backtalk I hear?” You dismount from the chaise lounge on shaky legs. With effort, you collapse beside him.

You curl a hand around one of his fists, clenched atop his naked knee. He shudders. There is a long moment of eye contact that doesn’t communicate anything in particular. Then you kiss him roughly, and he kisses back, and his fist unclenches and his fingers lace with yours.

You free him with your other hand, skin-on-skin, and you squeeze, and he cries out like you’ve stabbed him. It is ridiculous. You wonder what to tell the others, cause there’s no way they didn’t hear that; but then he’s writhing against you like he’d do absolutely anything you asked, just to feel a little more; and, well.

It sounds like he’s saying things, just curses and maybe your name mixed in. You realize too soon that you haven’t thought this through. Then his hips jackknife up, and he _wails_ , and (turning away just in time) he comes all. Over. The carpet.

Okay, so, a substantial portion of the carpet—more than 95% of it, in fact—remains unsullied by spooge, but whatever.

In addition to a digital clock (blinking twelve colon sixteen at you in dusty red), Kanaya’s mom keeps a box of Kleenex on her desk. You fetch some while he bemoans his incompetence.

The gin and the orgasm have worn off somewhat. Disillusionment ahoy. This is the part where he asks you not to tell anyone (as if you’re any worse than _him_ ), or reveals that, “You’re cool and this was fun! But, uh, Aradia, I kind of really like someone else.” Should you grit your teeth and clean it up, or make him do it himself? It won’t matter either way.

“You’re leaving?” It comes out thick and weird-sounding, probably because he’s lying on his back on the floor.

“That a hint?”

“Just thought it’d be nice if you—” his voice falters. “Never mind, it’s fine.” It is clearly not fine.

“I’m not leaving,” you say, because the decision re: cleaning up spooge has proven too difficult to make. Or maybe you’re tired.

“So why are you over there?” (You’re standing literally ten feet away. Christ.) But you drop the Kleenex, drop to your knees, and crawl over to him.

“Floor’s probably dirty.”

He mutters something slurred and petulant in response.

He’s too warm, like you, but you have great tolerance for high temperatures. You wrap your arms around him, and he melts into you. The crook of his neck just fits your chin.

“This is nice, huh.” His chest vibrates as he speaks.

“I guess.”

“Wanna go to the movies tomorrow?”

“I have work.”

“Next week?”

“…Maybe. I’ll check. Now shut up.” By some miracle, he does shut up. You kiss his temple. You aren’t used to this, and it feels a little weird. Then your phone buzzes. Oh! You forgot about that.

AA, come on   
ii’ve been tryiing two reach you for age2   
what’2 goiing on?   
hi sollux   
fiinally, jegu2!   
haha   
2o what’2 up?   
diid you giive iin to the iineviitable?   
well i guess i will say   
without sharing any details   
tell me not to fuck this loser again?   
WHAT THE 2HIITFLIIPPIING HELL   
II WA2 KIIDDIING   
haha i was just kidding too!   
im going to do it anyways

You turn your phone off and settle back down. Sollux can flip his shit tomorrow. For now, you’ve got a loser to cuddle, a stain to hide, and a cover story to concoct before people come looking for you. (Feferi, particularly, will be a difficult gumshoe to bamboozle.)

Said loser leans gratefully back into your embrace, not even pretending to be asleep. You roll your eyes, but tenderly, and tighten your arms around the boneless sack of douche.

How did you get here? You can hardly fathom it. But, honestly, you don’t think you’re sorry.


End file.
